


Until the night is over

by Ironically_canon



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dear Evan Hansen Fusion, Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen) Deserves Better, Deh - Freeform, Ghost Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), POV Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), connor ghost au, dear evan hansen - Freeform, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 10:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironically_canon/pseuds/Ironically_canon
Summary: Evan’s life is... fine. That is, until he starts seeing ghosts. Well, specifically Ghost. One. And Connor isn’t happy about the shit he’s been making up about them





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Do ghosts actually exist?"

"I saw a ghost"

"Can dead people stay on earth?"

"How to tell if you've seen a ghost"

I shake my head to clear my thoughts, shutting my computer with enough force to summon my mother, who seems to live within the three feet of space around my bedroom door.

"You okay?" She asks, her hands covered in flour from the cupcakes she's trying to make because I don't know why. I nod, flashing her a brief smile.

"Uh, yeah I just, just having trouble with a question for um, for school."

"Alright, well If you want my help, you know where I'll be." She throws finger guns and laughs to herself, walking back down the hall to the kitchen.

Why was I researching ghosts? Good question. It all started about a week ago

_________________________________

*flashback time*

_________________________________

I had meant to grab my phone from my nightstand, but I accidentally knocked my pill box off, spilling its contents all over the floor.

And that's the story of how I turned into a small pale cave-dwelling goblin scrambling in the dark for his scattered treasures.

Light spills into the room as I'm putting the last of them into the box, and I'm blinded momentarily, confirming my goblin illustration.

My mom flicks on the light, already dressed in her uniform, mom-bag slung over her shoulder.

"Is everything alright?" She asks, brows furrowed in concern.

I love my mom.

I know that she's doing the best as a single mom.

I know that most of her stress comes from me, and sometimes the guilt of that fact is so bad that it physically hurts.

I know that after my previous... self-assasination attempt (my therapist is a young man who doesn't like the word "suicide")

She's scared. I know all of this.

So why am I so annoyed with her? I shouldn't be; I should be grateful that I've been given everything, and I hate myself for being anything but thankful. I shake my head and smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She nods her head, as if reassuring herself, and checks the box on my bedside table. The one that holds my "happy capsules" as my therapist calls them.

I hate my therapist. But my mom had to pull a ton of strings to get me there, so I go. It makes her feel like I'm getting better. Newsflash: I'm not. But I know how to pretend.

"You good on refills?" She asks, even though she refilled them two days ago. "Yeah." I reply in a cheery voice,

like I didn't have an anxiety attack the other day when I had to give a presentation at school and just ended up clicking the fucking clicker ten million times and saying the word "today" thirty-six times ( yes I counted what else was I supposed to do?) until my throat closed up completely and I ran out of the classroom sobbing, much to the amusement of Natalie Goldman,

who had a video of the entire thing and posted it to her twitter and Instagram. Jared tried to tell me that no one even cares about that kind of thing anymore, which I almost believed until it went viral on the schools forum thingy - I don't know what it's called - and people started selling buttons and T-shirts with my face on them that said "mood", including Jared, who promised to give me 15% of all profit made from them.

There was that, at least. "Okay." My mom says, breaking me out of my thoughts. She hovers for a moment before producing a black marker from somewhere and handing it to me.

"For people to sign your cast."

She explains, tucking it into my shirt pocket. I nod, not wanting to reiterate that I have no friends, rendering the marker completely useless.

"Don't forget that you have an appointment with your Mariah this afternoon, I'll pick you up after school." She smooths the front of her uniform down, tugging at the hem.

"I thought I didn't, didn't have an ap-appointment until uh, until next week?" See, I actually can talk, as long as it's only like two syllables, but any more than that maxes out my brain capacity and I short circuit. My mom fiddles with her hair, her fingers running over the pill box.

"Yes well, I thought you might like to go sooner." She smiles briefly. This is one of these games we play where she tries to get me to think something is my idea or is something that I want, except I know it's bullshit, and she knows I know it's bullshit, but in this situation she's the adult and so I just keep my mouth shut and nod. She furrows her brows again.

"Can we just try to be optimistic? The world isn't going to fall apart, Evan."

She says that a lot. I don't think she understands that I don't really get to choose these things.

"Sounds great." I nod. I do that a lot, too. She nods back.

"Alright then, there's waffles in the toaster, I'll be home late, love you see you later." She kisses the top of my head and walks to my door.

"I'm proud of you!" She calls as she walks away.

"Yay!" I call back half-heartedly, Leaning down to put my shoes on.


	2. Tell me, where did you go?

"Evan Hansen, please come to the principal's office."

Shit.

I think to myself and cringe as I prepare myself to stand and leave, except that's when the alien invaders (again, my therapists words) begin to creep in and suddenly my mind is going a million miles an hour and I'mnotgracefulandsoIknowwhenitrytostandupimgoingtotriptryingtostandupoutofthisstupidchairwhythehelldotheymakethesethingssoclosetogether

and while all these aliens are apparently having a track meet through my thought process, everyone has started staring at me because

that was your name Evan why aren't you moving? And now I've got to stand up because everyone expects me to move because

your name was called, Evan

And I'm pretty sure that was my teacher talking so I try to stand up, but the fucking chair-desk-whatever is so small that I bang my calf area hard enough to send me on a one-way-trip to the floor, and

Well youcantstayontheflooridiotgetupwellmatbeicanjuststaydownhereprobablynobodysawanywaysaremypalmssweaty?notheirnotareyousure?youbettercheckohmygodtheyresosweatyhowareyougonnagetupwithsweatypalms?

And the answer to that comes just before the tears in my eyes have grown the balls to fall down my face, in the form of Jared, who stands up and sighs dramatically as I'm having a mind-seizure on the floor

"God, this is painful."

He walks over to me, taking a cell phone away from Natalie, who was trying to win an Oscar, and giving her a giving her a reproachful look similar to that of a parent scolding a naughty child.

He hauls me up by my armpits and throws all my books into my bag before shoving me out the door.

I take some deep breaths and peek back, only to realize that I've left my cell phone at my desk, and everyone know it's mine because the thing is ancient so now I've got to go back in there and grab it and the tears start welling up and again and i can't breatheand then Jared casually swipes the phone off the desk and pockets it, giving me a look before sitting back down again.

When I get to the office, the principal isn't in there, so maybe I was too slow walking and he got tired of waiting and left, except he's the principal so why would he leave? Especially if I was in trouble, which means I'm probably not in trouble and they called a different Evan Hansen even though I don't think there is one but I'm still debating this when a familiar-looking woman walks out and waves me in.

I have no idea why she wants me, but I know we've met before, I just can't think when.

She sits me down on the guilt-couch (a name coined by the students because of the notorious guilt-trips of our principal) and takes a seat across from me next to a man I assume is her husband.

"Hello, Evan. My name is Cynthia Murphy, this is my husband, Larry.

Murphy. Finally it clicks.

I met them about a week ago when I was called into a meeting with Connor after he shoved me onto the floor for looking at him funny.

I feel like I should remember that clearly because it was less than six days ago, but I guess it slipped my mind.

The thing about Connor is, while he's got an insane temper and a tendency to do batshit crazy stuff, he's the kind of guy you forget about as soon as you turn away from him.

Like if I thought about it, I could remember the time in second grade that he tried to set the classroom on fire because he didn't get a turn to hold our class hamster, or the time in eighth grade that he stole fifteen cans of chili from the cafeteria and dumped it down the toilet in the teachers' lounge to make a point about climate change or some shit, but for the most part I stayed out of his way and didn't think about him.

I guess someone reported the incident last week because I definitely didn't, but since we already had that meeting I assume this is about what happened like two days later in the computer room.

Which I also forgot about.

No one else was there though, so I guess his parents found the letter and that's what this is about.

I realize at that point that I've been staring for way too long and attempt to make up for the that with literal word-vomit.

"Yes, Connor's parents right? If this is about the... about the uh, about the letter don't even worry about it it's not like it's not even important I don't even need it back I can just - I can just write a new one or something."

I don't think they hear that, because it occurs to me that Mrs. Murphy is crying into a handkerchief while her husband just looks uncomfortable.

"It's really not even, not even that bad like I forgive C-Connor I'm sure he didn't mean to push me like it was totally, totally my fault anyways."

Mrs. Murphy pauses and looks up at me through tears eyes.

"Oh my god. You don't know, do you?"

She asks, sniffling.

And then whatdidhedowiththeletterdidhepublishitsomewhere?tradeitfordrugs?stupidyoushittywritingisntworthanythingwhatisbadenoughthatshescrying?

I um, I don't understand?"

I manage to get out, shifting uncomfortably.

I notice a sharp pain in my palm and realize that it's bleeding in nail-shaped cuts, and then I notice my fingernails have my skin under them and I almost throw up because

I don't do blood

So I shove my hand under my leg and try to focus on Mrs. Murphy, who is crying again.

Whatdidisay?

It occurs to me that Connor isn't with them.

Why isn't he with them?

I try remember when the last time I saw him was, but it must have been that day in the computer lab, but that was on Friday I think and I'm at least ninety-percent sure that it's Tuesday and I can't remember seeing him at all this week.

I'm almost sure Alana beck mentioned that fact to me but I usually tune out what she says except that I think she mentioned his sister Zoey, who, by-the-way, I'm in love with, which is probably why I was listening in the first place and now that I'm really remembering I don't thing I've seen Zoey either, and why would they both be out of school?

And then my stomach starts turning knots and I'm worried that something happened, which is comfirmed in Mrs. Murphy's sobs, as

Mr. Murphy pats his wife's leg and takes a deep breath.

"It's Connor. He took his life over the weekend."

My stomach drops.

I didn't have anything to do with that right?

I don't think the contents of the letter were enough to drive someone to suicide, but I guess I'm not Connor so I'll never know.

Mrs. Murphy takes a small folded piece of paper out of her purse and hands it to me.

I unfold and skim through it.

DearEvanHansen,today'snotgonnabeagoodday...

this is my letter.

Like my actual, i-wrote-this-garbage letter.

I look up at the Murphy's, confused.

"It's his letter."

Mr. Murphy explains, like that clears things up.

It doesn't, but I nod along anyways.

"His suicide note."

Mrs. Murphy elaborates,

Which actually does clear things up.

So Connor goes home with the letter and kills himself, they find him with the letter and assume he wrote it.

That's fair.

But it also means that they think he wrote a letter to me, and that opens up a can of worms in my head that are taking too long to run through.

I open my mouth to explain, but the dread of that short-circuits my brain and I stutter, leaving room for Mrs. Murphy to say

"You were friends, right? I mean that's what this letter says. Clearly he wanted you to have it."

I can't speak.

I shake my head, opening my mouth to speak but what comes out sounds more like a broken cassette tape than a person, but eventually I manage to get a few words out.

"No, this isn't, it isn't his he-he didn't write it."

I'm still shaking my head as Mrs. Murphy gently takes the letter from my hand.

"But It says right here 'Dear Evan Hansen' that's you right? 'Your dearest friend' it's says right here!"

She's sobbing again and I'm still shaking my head and broken-cassette-taping when her husband grabs her shoulder gently and softly says something to her.

"No! They were friends, it says right here!"

I have to get out.

My throat is closing up and the tears are back and also I'm pretty sure my palms are sweating why do they always do that? And suddenly I'm standing up and I'm trying to apologize while making my way out of the room and the Mrs. Murphy yells for me to wait and

she's an adult so I have to turn around and she not really crying anymore which tells me that it took a lot longer for me to walk this far than I thought. Also my calves hurt, which tells me that I tripped over several things while making my grand escape.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know Connor had any friends."

She looks at me hesitantly, as if waiting for me to turn and run.

When I don't, she continues.

"You were friends, right?"

I can't speak again.

All of this woman's hope is pinned on Connor and I's friendship.

I don't have to tell her any details, right?

And I think Connor maybe hated me less than some people, so in a way we kind of were maybe?

I can't say no, so I kind of nod my head and look at the floor.

Mrs. Murphy gestured to the guilt-couch, and I slowly sink back down onto it, still looking at the floor.

I bring myself to meet their eyes and nearly scream when I see Connor standing behind them, mouth open in disgust.

"Dude, what the fuck,"


	3. I’ve been lonely long enough

Okay so looking back, screaming loudly and running out of the principal's office probably made me look a little bit insane, so maybe that wasn't the best move, but what the fuck was I supposed to do after seeing my dead - whatever he was?

Besides, his parents knew he was a psycho, they told me as much after our meeting.

Apparently one time Connor totaled his car because he wanted to know what slamming into a tree at 60mph would do.

Not-so-fun fact, he broke an arm, a leg, a few ribs, and as a result of that became addicted to pain killers.

Anyways The point of this story is that his parents probably weren't too surprised that Connor's only friend was a non-functioning, clumsy schizophrenic with extreme social anxiety.

I think the screaming must have freaked the principal out too - that, or the fact that I ran straight into him, turned to see Connor standing right beside him, dropped my backpack, and yelled,

"Holy fuck!"

Then kept running down the hall, leaving behind my backpack behind like a fallen soldier.

The funny thing is, I don't think he's ever even heard me speak, since the anxiety thing means I have trouble talking to figures of authority, so the cursing must have been a surprise.

I turn to look back once, to see Connor looking at me disapprovingly, and then I turn and run without looking back again.

When I get home, I sit down at my desk and open up my laptop to start googling ghosts and shit, and while I get a lot of fanfiction and tumblr-y stuff, there isn't actually much on ghosts.

This is crazy.

Of course that wasn't a ghost I saw.

Ghosts don't exist.

Silly boy, with your silly brain that doesn't work right.

The only thing is, I've never seen things before.

And Connor looked real - or, as real as a ghost is capable of looking, you know, given the circumstances.

I flop down onto my bed and stare at the glow-in-the-dark-stars that my mom stuck on my ceiling because I told her I was scared of the dark.

I wasn't really scared of the dark though.

I told her that because I couldn't explain that it wasn't the dark, it was the things that came with it, the prodding thoughts my therapist would call "invaders" as if they were aliens and not just my own brain, that would creep in and tell me among other things that i was the only person alive on earth because I couldn't hear or see anyone else, that everything but me had disappeared and I was floating around in a void, but also that there were things that waited in the dark for me.

My mom gave me a nightlight to try and help, but the nightlight made shadows on the wall that scared me, and I was terrified it would catch on fire and burn the house down with my mom in it.

That to me was worse than the night creatures, so I always turned it off when she left my room after saying goodnight.

I sit up and take a look around my room to ground myself in reality.

As if seeing a maybe-ghost might have affected the world I lived in physically.

But my walls are the same beige we can't afford to paint a different color.

Not that I'd want to.

The beige is kind of comforting compared to the crazy that is me.

My dresser is still the same light wood that my mom found at a thrift store and tried to paint blue.

The blue's mostly gone now, but I think the leftover bits of paint give it character.

The same rubik's cube I've been trying to solve for two years sits on my desk, next to my off-brand laptop that I stuck a happy-face sticker on to make it seem cooler - it didn't but who cares? - my bed is still made how I left it this morning with the same ninja turtle bedspread I've had since I was twelve that my mother bought for my birthday, along with a matching set of pajamas.

Everything is exactly the same,

Except for me.

I decide to email Jared, who hates me, but usually gives pretty good advice.

I log on to my computer and send him a message explaining what happened.

He replies almost instantly,

Evan did you forget to take your meds or smth?

I quickly type back

No, i really think I saw him Jared. What if he's come back to haunt me?

Listen Evan i really don't think Connor gave a shit about you while he was alive, why the fuck would he care about you when he's dead? It's not like you shoved his head down a toilet weekly

When he puts it like that, I feel a little better.

Then why do you think he's here?

Dude, you're probably just becoming a schizo or smth. Ur seeing things that aren't normal my guy

I'm not schizophrenic. I just want him to go away.

Maybe ole Con-Con's got some unfinished business

Unfinished business?

Yeah, like he didn't get to bang some girl he liked or killed someone and never got caught. That kind of thing.

Okay, that makes sense, how do I find out what it is?

Have you tried talking to your dead bff yet or do you just scream whenever you see him like some anime tween

I haven't talked to him

Try that and see if he feels like spilling the beans. J out

I'm about to ask him what to say when my mom walks into the room. I shut the laptop quickly and turn to smile at her.

"Watcha doing there?"

She asks, taking another step into the room.

"Just um, just alking to Jared. He's uh, he's - he's helping me out with a s-Spanish project."

Her face softens a little.

"Jared's always been such a good friend for you. I'm glad you guys are talking more."

That's not really true, Jared and my mom are friends and they occasionally do yoga class together, so I guess she thinks we're besties or something.

It doesn't actually matter, so I just smile and nod like we get together weekly to braid each other's hair and talk about girls together while we giggle and watch romcoms.

She nods and gestures to my med box that my therapist insisted I decorate to make it not so sad.

I just stuck a ton of those Lisa Frank stickers he had in his office on it and called it a day.

"Are you good on meds?"

She asks, by way of saying goodbye.

I nod and she nods back and we do that for a good thirty seconds before she decideds to make her great escape.

I throw myself back onto my bed and fiddle with the rubik's cube.

I guess that settles things then.

I'm gonna try and talk to Connor.


	4. I’ve been lonely long enough

He looks ridiculous.

Sitting on his bed trying to get me to talk.

I've been laying on his floor for the past hour and a half listening to him.

I've learned that I can't really control when I'm visible, but so far he's been the only one able to see me anyways.

And also I don't want to talk to him, so there's that.

So why am I laying on his bedroom floor?

Good question; and there really isn't an answer except that he has glow-in-the-dark-stars on his ceiling.

The stick-on kind I had growing up but that my dad made me take down when I turned twelve.

It didn't matter.

I painted them onto my ceiling with glowing paint that you can't see during the day.

I also painted my walls purple one weekend when my parents were out of town, and they didn't want to pay money to repaint so they just left them.

Zoe helped me do that, it was back when she didn't hate me, when my brain was still functioning almost normally.

Except for the car crash.

And the addiction that followed.

I'm not - I hadn't been addicted for a while, just took pills to take the edge off sometimes.

The problem was that sometimes was almost daily.

Fitting that that's how I went I guess.

At least it wasn't messy like the car wreck.

They don't really teach you this but head and arm cuts bleed a lot.

It could have been worse than a few ribs, but I didn't really care anyways because the few seconds right before I hit the tree we're filled with the most emotion I'd felt in months.

I think Zoe could tell because even though I still have my license and am - was generally a safe driver, I wasn't ever allowed behind the wheel again.

We were FaceTiming when I crashed

(Not a good idea but our town is so small hardly anyone is ever driving anyways)

More because we both hate talking without being able to see people's expressions and she was yelling at me about something I'd said to mom.

This was before she stopped talking to me completely, and I wasn't really listening because I was focused on this tree that was coming into view and I was wondering what my car would look like wrapped around it, and I think Zoe must've noticed the change in my expression and started screaming at me not to do whatever it was.

She always knew when I was about to do something,

Like the time when I decided to jump off the roof onto the trampoline, fell through, and broke both of my legs.

Or the time I threw most of our electronics into the pool because they were buzzing and I couldn't stand the sound.

Funny, how the person who hated me the most understood me better than anyone else.

Well, almost anybody.

I haven't been to visit him yet, I can't bring myself to.

He isn't the reason I'm gone, but knowing him he'll blame himself for it anyways.

I don't want to have to deal with that too.

I would have left him a note, of course, but it looks like Evan's got that taken care of.

Oh right, him.

I look over at him, still saying my name as if I'm going to answer.

He's closed his eyes and folded his legs like he's praying or something.

I would say that being a ghost is scary or depressing, but this is basically the way I lived my life anyways, drifting in and out of people's focus like a fucked-up kaleidoscope.

The one good thing is that I don't feel like there are bugs under my skin, and I'm thinking fairly rationally,

And looking back Evan probably wasn't trying to fuck with me in the computer lab, or in the hallway before.

I would apologize maybe (probably not), but he lied about the letter, so I think we're even now anyways.

The first day of being dead, I just wandered around the hospital watching people come and go.

All these people that all had separate lives they lived and different people that they loved and hated, but morality is, i suppose, something that all humans have in common, so it makes sense that a hospital would be a good middle-ground for everyone.

The second day, I went and visited my body for the last time.

It was strange, seeing my physical self.

I know I was dead, but I looked exhausted.

You could see my cheekbones jutting out grossly and my eye sockets were hollow.

I smoked a lot of pot, so I was sure I was eating a ton, but then I was hit with tons of memories of nights spent hanging my head over a toilet.

I wanted to know if I had always looked like that, or if death had done it, so I went back to my house to look through pictures.

There were hardly any in our photo albums, and even so, my hair was generally obscuring my face so I couldn't tell.

The next place I checked was our school forum-thingy.

Amazingly, I'd made it into some kind of group picture from one of Zoe's concerts - how in the hell I managed to do that, I have no idea - and yes, i looked like a ghost.

Looking at myself and realizing that I would never be anything more than this to anyone made me oddly sad.

It wasn't really that I wished I had friends - I didnt appreciate the flakiness of humanity in general - it was more like a mourning for the person I could have been, in a different life.

Or the person I wanted to be.

I wanted to not need drugs.

I wanted the world to stop being the world,

Blah blah blah, it doesn't actually matter.

I clicked through for a couple more minutes and found a picture of me and M that was taken back when we were at school together. I had no idea who posted it, or where they got it, and M had been cropped out for some reason, but I looked happy.

My eyes weren't nearly as dark, and I was smiling.

He had that effect on me.

And I threw it away because of my own fear.

I blinked back tears and shut down the computer,

Tugging at my bracelets as I remembered a day in late May, the late afternoon sunshine filtering in through the shutters of a window.

The head of soft, curly hair tucked against my neck, the warmth of another's breath on my chest.

And I lost it.

I ran out of the house and it was raining.

How poetic.

I never really thought about if ghosts could get wet, but in a couple of minutes I was soaking, the raindrops mixing with my tears and running down my cheeks as I ran.

I couldn't feel the cold of the water, or the burn of running, which would have been nice, except that the pain inside was burning white-hot, and I had nothing to drag me back into reality, and eventually o just collapsed into the road, sobbing, and let the pain pull me down and into the darkness.

Eventually I woke up (fun fact: ghosts can sleep?)

And peeled myself off the ground, stars still kind of dancing around in my vision, and then I just started walking.

Eventually I got to the school, right when all the fun was starting.

They even made an announcement about me.

Like anyone actually cared.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and open my eyes, bringing myself back to the present.

I pull myself off the floor and start walking around his room, touching his things and trying to figure out who he is.

I didn't even know his name until yesterday.

I'm sure I've been told it before, because me and my parents met with him last week about something.

I was really high though, so I don't remember anything except that no one had signed his cast and I think he looked really sad.

Maybe that isn't the right word, he looked weary, like he was so tired of running without ever getting anywhere, like he knew the race was never going to end but he wished it would.

I remember him telling me that he fell out of a tree.

I wasn't high that day, but I have a weird kind of brain where I can remember things really specifically, it's just I usually chuck it in the "for later" box and then a specific phrase or something pulls it back out for a second.

At the time, It seemed completely plausible that this kid could have fallen out of a tree, but now remembering the look on his face at the meeting, I really should have called bullshit way sooner.

I'd tried offing myself plenty of times, in a lot of different ways, but I'd never jumped off of anywhere high enough to kill me.

A lot of the time I hadn't planned on doing it, I just kind of ended up in a convenient place and decided on an impulse, like so many other things.

Ay fingers are trailing, I come across a smallish box decorated with the those shimmery little stickers Zoe used to collect.

The memory makes me smile, and I check to make sure Evan isn't looking before I open it up and find a couple of prescription bottles and some crumpled pieces of paper.

I don't really want to read his personal writing, so I quietly close the box and move on.

Standing on the opposite side of the room is a bookshelf filled with barbies (I'm kidding what else would be on this fucking thing) and I cross the room to take a look.

There's a lot of comics, mostly X-men, but there's also a ton of great ones, like to kill a mockingbird, persuasion, the time machine, the outsiders, and the catcher in the rye. I'm not really surprised to see them there, but it's kind of jarring to realize how alike we are.

Like two sides of the same coin.

I suddenly remember trying to talk about to kill a mockingbird with him, that day in the computer lab.

He didn't seem like he understood, but he may have just been confused that I had read it.

I think essays on what a book is about are stupid so I never wrote any, but I read the books I was given.

I've always like reading.

It's like and escape from myself.

Almost.

It's weird to think that we've gone to school our whole lives - not counting the year I was at the private one - but that if we'd ever sat down and talked, we might have been friends.

But then again, I tend to fuck relationships (and people) up, so it's probably best.

I don't really want to be here anymore, but Evan is still calling my name, and it's gettin kind of awkward, so I decide to write him a note.

I grab a pad of sticky notes and a sharpie from his desk and scribble out a message before throwing it at him.

It smacks him in the forehead, knocking him backwards, and I leave right as sits up and grabs the note, rubbing his forehead that's now a bright red.


End file.
